


safe and sound

by deanssammy (babylxxrry)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Character Study, Curtain Fic, Gen, M/M, Other, Suicide, set roughly s13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 17:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/deanssammy
Summary: it's been so long. sam's tired.





	safe and sound

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know. i broke my writer's block. read the tags.
> 
> TW: suicide, themes of physical abuse (mostly unintentional)
> 
> suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Sam is tired.

It’s been so long.

It’s been days, weeks, maybe months, maybe years, maybe decades.

He can’t even tell anymore.

It’s been so long since Dean last held him, last told him how much he meant to him. It’s been so long since he was anything more than the peeling wallpaper background for his flashy, macho big brother. It’s been so long since Dean was, well, _Dean_. It’s been so long since Dean’s asked him if he’s okay. It’s been so long since Dean put him first.

And Sam’s not asking to be first, ever. No, he never deserved that, not even when Dean cared about him beyond his inclination and patience for research. No, Sam just wishes Dean remembers the days when he didn’t go out and hustle and get drunk and fuck women and come home and take out his anger against Sam’s cheeks, ribs, stomach.

Sam’s _tired_. He doesn’t even know why, but he knows why. He’s tired because no one cares anymore, so why should he? Dean was the only one who ever care about him, and now, Dean’s not Dean anymore. He’s become some glamorous, hedonistic version of the tough but caring man he used to be. He’s the one who gets all the glory, all the attention. And that’s okay. Sam doesn’t ask for anything more than he deserves.

But he wishes Dean would just ask him if he were okay.

And Sam wouldn’t give him the generic _I’m fine_ , because he knows more than to pull that bullshit with his brother.

_No, Dean, I’m not. I’m not okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m a burden. I’m sorry I take up more space than I’m supposed to. I’m sorry I stop you from drowning yourself in alcohol the way John used to. I’m sorry I’m a weak link. I’m sorry I don’t make a better punching bag._

But Dean hasn’t asked, not for days, weeks, maybe months, maybe years.

Sam just wants a hug, a word, wants something, _anything_ from his brother that might suggest that he still remembers he even _has_ a little brother in Sam. That Sam’s not just a catch-all for his worries and frustrations and punches. That Sam used to mean something to him. That Sam still cares, still loves him more than anything in this world.

There’d always been something there, something simmering under the surface, something more than platonic, fraternal love. Something terrifying in its intensity. Sometimes it’d break through in the form of quick fucks in the dark, painful and rough but more satisfying and _right_ than anything Sam had ever felt before and since. They never talked about it, but it’s okay. At least Dean had cared, a little.

Now?

Sam doesn’t know. They talk, but it’s guarded on both sides, professional and clinical. It’s a carefully curated set of steps that they don’t deviate from. That _Sam_ doesn’t deviate from, for fear that he’ll lose Dean entirely. Dean’s free to do as he wishes, free to bring women back to their hotel room and kick Sam out, free to stay out all night doing god knows what with god knows who, free to knock Sam around out of _protectiveness_ when Sam even implies that he could do the same.

Protection is a bitter thought. It’s an old concept, something they used to do. They used to protect each other, still do, but it’s clinical. It’s routine, it’s a well-trodden path of systems in place to ensure neither of them die on each other’s watches. But routines are dangerous. They lull people into a false sense of security.

And that’s dangerous.

Routines are dangerous.

Sam grips the counter tight, staring detachedly at his reflection in the cracked mirror of the dingy bathroom.The bruise high on his right cheek is fading, as is the black eye that came with it. The harsh lines of his ribs break up the blotchy groups of old and new bruises scattered over his torso. He presses a thumb into the newest group and doesn’t feel the sting. It feels like the world is spinning.

He wishes Dean would hold him one final time as he tips the last pill out of the expired, off-brand bottle of sleeping pills he’d found in the cabinet when they’d arrived. There’d been a good twenty, thirty pills, though, and Sam had waited until his brother left for the bars before pulling the bottle out.

Places the pill on the tip of his tongue.

God, he misses Dean’s touch.

Swallows dry.

Stumbles out to the bed.

Sits heavily on the edge of the one farther from the door because god forbid he make Dean move his body after he’s dead.

Hesitates.

Takes the pad of paper and shitty pen.

_I’m sorry you have to waste salt on burning my body. I hope you find someone better to take my place. I love you._

Lies down, stares at the ceiling.

Waits for the pills to kick in.

It’s been so long.

He wishes Dean would be here for this, would cup his cheek and tell him to close his eyes, to let go.

It’s been so long.

It’s been too long.

Sam is tired.

 

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255


End file.
